Messes
by Bowles
Summary: The Joker, years before the height of his career, follows a man into a dirty house and reflects on plans and the necessary messiness of everyday life, laughing all the way.


Disclaimer: I don't own Batman, etc. Also, several quotes pulled from the movie, comics, and the Smiths. Have fun picking them out.

* * *

...

.

...

You walk, bounding, skipping, but ever so quietly. The man in the neat brown coat stops and so do you, but while he's stiff and so, so bound by his pride and manners, you are relaxed and flowing every way, loosey-goosey style. Ho ho ha ha! Just like kindergarten with Mrs. Yarbrough. Before that bitch Geverton replaced her and instilled her precious _order_ in the classroom – like order matters to five-year-olds!

His eyes are scanning scanning scanning – fruitlessly thrice, you grin – and he continues on his path, his hat held low and his sunglasses firmly in place even though the sun is beginning to set and there's never been much light in _this_ part of town. He he he. A little metaphorical joke. You love metaphors, twisting them, corrupting them. Or maybe your love for corrupting metaphors is just a (get this!) _metaphor_ for your love of corrupting everything! Hee hee hoo ha.

You're wearing a hat and coat not too dissimilar from his but it's only for the job. He's comfortable around people like him. He shouldn't be. His wife certainly shouldn't be. The taxpayers electing him shouldn't be. And his backstabbing congressmen colleagues shouldn't be. But that's just government for you! Full of liars and hypocrites and their silly little plans. Don't they understand that life is meant to be a little messy?

Tonight it's going to be a lot messy – ha ha!

You know from previous walks with the respectable congressman that he's almost at his destination. Tonight he won't be going in alone. Though he's never really alone on these late-night jaunts, is he? Wouldn't Mrs. Congressman love to know _that?_

He stops in front of the dirty apartment building, looks both ways as if he's crossing the street – more like the Styx, you chuckle. Hello, Hades!

Finally certain no one's following him – hee hee! – he steps up to the door, takes out a handkerchief, and tries the doorknob. You frown. He's so germophobic. So neat.

He reminds you of your father – and you didn't like your father. He hated it when you moved his precious hunting guns or when your hair wasn't perfectly neat or when your mother left some of her dirty laundry out. Nowadays your guns are haphazardly stacked at whatever crappy joint you're currently calling home and your hair is wild (you're thinking of maybe adding a color and make-up, but that can wait for later – but wouldn't Daddy Dearest love that, hehe?) and your clothes have no hamper to contain them.

But was that man your father? Did that even happen? As far as you know it didn't – the past doesn't exist any more. There is only the _now._ No stupid past, no silly future: the now is all there is. How soon will this or that happen? people ask. Well, you say, how soon is _now?_ (Oh that Morrissey is so much fun! And you, like him, are the son and heir of nothing in particular! Ha!)

Besides, you don't have a history, you have alternate histories. If you're going to have a past you'd prefer it to be multiple choice!

He's inside the building and you begin the long tedious process of waiting. You stare, watch at people passing by – gangsters, pimps, prostitutes – and even _they_ have the good sense to be scared of you.

One in particular, a no-good hustler with a stupid fur coat, shudders and moves away from you when he walks by.

Your voice lilts out, mockingly hurt: "What? Is it the scars?"

He doesn't look back to face your deafening cackle.

They keep looking at you like you're a freak but you know, oh you _know_, you know that _they're_ the freaks. You're just a miracle waiting to happen. You're them, liberated. All the freaks are jealous of you. Irony, ha!

You feel the knife in your pocket. Its comforting weight soothes you. Wait. Wait. Just wait and let this thing play out. _It's all part of the plan._ Hahaha. But this plan's going to be just a little… messy!

It's been an hour and you know he only stays for two. You cross the street – literally, not metaphorically – and walk up to the building. You didn't look both ways, you muse as you push open the door. There's no reason to know what's coming, after all. It ruins all of the fun!

You know the room from your last visit when you waited outside, casually trashy in your appearance, apparently drunk and uninterested when he'd emerged from the door and paled at the sight of your face. He'd relaxed, moved on, and you had smiled.

You'd smiled the same smile that's taking over your face now. You know the door's locked, but what's a little lock to a big bad villain like _you?_ Locks. Seriously! Why lock the world out? Is that really going to stop a guy like you?

The lock comes undone.

Ho ha ho. Of course it didn't stop you.

You slip inside the little apartment, all quick and quiet-like. It's dirtier than you remember from the last time you broke in – again, in preparation. (For a guy who hates plans you sure are good at planning. But if the plan goes wrong it's no big deal. It's just more fun!)

You begin to creep back into the bedroom but he's in the kitchen, sitting at the counter, maybe reflecting on all of his past sins. What a waste of time. He needs to smile! Laugh! Enjoy his moral decrepitude! Really, it's enlightening how easily he disregards all moral rules!

A look of terror comes on his face when he notices you and you remember why you want to ruin him. He's so sure of his own superiority that he goes around cheating and lying and buying up all the good organized crime in this town and you're just about sick of it. He's not against plans or rules; no, he's just trying to enforce his own plans and rules. His own ambitions and dreams.

Fah! _Dreams._ How silly. Why would you want to anticipate what tomorrow's going to bring? Surprises are so enjoyable!

"Who are you?" he asks.

"Evening, Congressman," you say gleefully.

"Who are you?" he says, voice rising.

"No one."

And tonight you are. Tonight people can't know your name if this is really going to work. But there will be other nights for that. Other nights to become a saint to all anarchists.

You pull out your gun, point it at him. "But you're going to listen to me now. Let's just stay calm and it'll all be just fine, hehehe. Just settle down."

"You're one of the Mafia's men."

You sigh. "No, I'm my own men. You politicians and your foolish alliances. Why do you have to implicate _me_ in that same kind of pettiness? I know they say never to judge a book by its cover, but look at me!" Your finger's against your scars. "Do I look like a guy with a lot of _friends?"_

"I can pay you more than they are. I can pay you much more."

"Money is only good because it burns," you say dismissively. "What is it with you people and money? You use your money to buy off other people like you so that your stupid _plans_ can come into action. Plans. I think I'm going to throw a wrench in your plans tonight, Congressman."

And he looks so scared, naked and pale before you. You almost feel sad. But you don't feel sad any more, remember? It's such a waste of time.

"Please, I'm begging you…"

"No no no, _I'm _in charge, remember?" You toss him the knife and he recoils. Then he picks it up, looks at it in wonder. "Remember, I've got the gun, smart guy. I'm going to tell you what you're going to do. You're going to go in that room and stab that fifteen-year-old prostitute to death and if you don't I shoot _you_. That's how this is going to work."

"I'm not killing her," he states. He almost means it.

"You're going to in the next two minutes," you say breezily. "Again. You're going to kill her or I shoot you. Your life or hers. A little social experiment, let's say."

"I won't –"

"You will. One minute or I shoot you."

He waits thirty seconds, lunges for you but he can't reach you and your gun is pointed to his head. A lone tear escapes him as he stares at the gun. He turns and walks into the bedroom and twenty seconds later you hear a girl's scream.

"Very good," you call out. "Excellent form. I love the screamers. You really get a lot more bang out of your buck."

Two moments later the screams stop. You frown – they'd been like a gorgeous melody that you'd never wanted to end – and walk into the room, still holding the gun to him.

"That was too quick."

"I did it," he says, and he's broken. Good. It's so much fun when they're broken at the end! "I did it, you sick psycho. Just let me go. Let me live."

You step forward, still aiming at him.

"You said you wouldn't kill me!" he screams. "You said you wouldn't kill me!"

He looks at the door and you grin. Always hoping. Always dreaming of an escape.

"I'm not going to kill you," you say. He makes the mistake of relaxing. "Instead –" you ruffle around in your jacket and pull out a container "– you're going to take this pill and I'm going to be on my merry way."

"What is it?"

"Vitamin."

"I'm not taking the pill."

"I said I wouldn't kill you. If I wanted to kill you, I'd shoot you. See the logic?"

He grimaces, takes the container, and pops the pill into his mouth. Swallows. Someone moans and you wonder if it's him.

"Now what?"

"We wait a minute and I'm out of here. Then you can go. I don't care."

But in sixty seconds he's dropped to the ground and the poison is slowly taking over his system. You retrieve the container, still smiling, and put your gun back in your coat. He can keep the bloody knife. A parting gift.

Another moan.

You look at the bed and grin.

"Oh deary! Darling!" You lean over the kid girl and smile kindly. A yellow-toothed smile of a madman. She must be so soothed! "Don't worry! Shh, don't worry, dolly. It'll all be over soon!"

She whimpers again. The blood runs from the cut in her neck down her blouse to the cut in her stomach.

"I promise you! I wouldn't lie," you insist. "I didn't lie to him, deary! I told him I wouldn't kill him, didn't I? And I didn't. _He _killed him. He had the choice and _he_ created this big mess!"

She's dying before your eyes, less of a coward than that man ever was. It's _beautiful_.

"Sh, sweetheart. I'm sorry he couldn't do the job right. But it'll be over soon, I promise. Don't worry, doll."

Her breathing is slowing. Her life is slipping.

Ha ha ha! Ho ho!

You grin at her, stand over her, stare into her bloodshot eyes as she takes her last breaths.

"Don't worry, darling. Don't you worry. Everything will be all right." You stroke her hair with your gloved hand, lean in and whisper into her ear:

"_It's all part of the plan."_

_..  
_


End file.
